


Consumed

by longwhitecoats



Series: Staccato [5]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Begging, Bondage, Clothed Sex, Food Kink, Food Play, Fucking, Gags, Knifeplay, M/M, Manual blindfold, Object Insertion, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wine is running down his collarbones, his cock, over the marble, onto the floor. It’s a mess, a goddamn mess in Hannibal’s kitchen, it’s like watching a pagan priest pour out an offering and it’s like being a piece of meat about to be burnt in the fire, and then Hannibal bends down and takes Will’s cock into his mouth, and Will finally bites all the way through the plum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consumed

Will's belly growls. He's been up since dawn, fishing, running, stretching, showering, shaving. He's been through his closet twice and nearly torn out his hair trying to give a fuck about what he wears for once. He's been pacing the length of his room, flashes of his own frustration glimpsed in the mirror, shirts piling up on the bed and dogs vacating the space as their master winds and winds himself up like a pocketwatch and listens for the tick. It's nearly seven. He has to leave soon. He has to  _go_ , and he can't decide what to  _wear_ , and the time has somehow gone.   
  
He puts a hand to his belly. He hasn't eaten anything since Hannibal's visit last night.  
  
Will is  _ravenous_.  
  
In the end, Will pulls on the same damn jeans and shirt and undershirt he always wears, laces his boots, crunches through the frost, and drives the hour in a frenzied haze. Maybe it's that he got more sleep than he's had in weeks--five hours, how sad is that?--or maybe it's that he's been thinking about this, waiting for this, Will suddenly realizes, his skin rippling with a sensation like a rising wind, since he  _met_  Hannibal months ago. Either way: he feels alive. Hot. He can almost feel the blood beating against his skull.  
  
He pulls up to Hannibal's house and shuts off the car.  
  
The door brings him up short. Abruptly, he remembers all at once the niceties he neglected. His hair is uncombed; he left his belt at home. Should he have brought something? But there's no time. Hannibal must have seen his headlights, because without a single press of the bell, the door opens. There, dimly lit, is Hannibal, sleeves rolled up and apron splashed with red.  
  
"Hello," Will says. Before he can finish stammering something inappropriate, Hannibal grasps his face and kisses him hard, teeth scraping his lips and tongue forcing Will's mouth open, and then Will is backed against the doorframe with the full hard weight of Hannibal's body against his, and Will's hands are everywhere, feeling the rough cotton apron, heavy silk shirt, the strength of Hannibal's arms--  
  
He whimpers, ashamed of himself, and feels Hannibal give an answering groan into his mouth. They stay there for longer than Will can stay above the surface. When Hannibal at last leans back, the cold October air is a shock. He feels drunk.   
  
"The whole neighborhood probably saw that," Will says.  
  
Hannibal lifts his hand to Will's face and caresses it, his thumb pulling at Will's lower lip. "Do you think they might be jealous?"  
  
Will puts his palm against Hannibal's chest, weak with lust. "Take me inside. Please."  
  
Hannibal smiles and steps back, arm outstretched, the perfect gentleman. "Of course."  
  
They walk through the dining room, which is cold and dark. No candles have been lit; all the house is empty, dead, until they get to the kitchen. Will can't help staring at Hannibal as he walks, the long lithe curve of his back, so elegant and strong. He can't think what it reminds him of. For an instant, the gold swing of a pendulum drops through his vision, and he shakes it off, catches himself on a side table.  
  
Hannibal turns. "Will?"  
  
"I'm fine," he says. He's fine, he'll  _be_  fine, he's just overexcited and overwhelmed. And--confused. "Are you serving dinner in the kitchen?"  
  
"You might say that," Hannibal says. "Please excuse me for a moment, Will. This meal is delicately timed." He turns to the sideboard and slices at the neck of a bottle, uncorks it, spills out ruby liquid into a long-stemmed decanter. Will breathes in. The air is rich with the smell of slow-cooked meat; Will peers into the oven, but only the outline of a dish reveals itself. His stomach ought to be sticking to his backbone, as they used to say when he was a skinny kid, with how little he ate today. And Will is so hungry. But he isn't sure exactly what he's hungry for. He wants to gnaw, tear, be torn apart.   
  
Hannibal is standing next to him, watching his eyes.   
  
"Sorry," Will sputters.   
  
"No need to apologize for appreciating the onset of a fine meal," Hannibal says. "You look--quite famished." But he doesn't mean it, Will thinks. As if through a translator, he hears Hannibal say:  _You look--quite ravishing._  
  
No.  _You look--ravished._  
  
"Famished," Will manages. "Do I?" He's sweating, burning up. A pang of conscience strikes him. Should he have stayed home? Is he sick? No, no, it's his usual self, it's just heightened by this feverish desire, that's all it is, he's just desperate for it, practically in heat, nearly frantic with the need to be taken over. For a moment, his eyes flick away to the wallpaper, a gold-on-grey print of antlers from an eight-point buck.   
  
Then Hannibal's hands are on either side of his face. His vision clears.   
  
Hannibal strokes his cheekbones, cups his jaw. The tips of his fingers brush Will's hair, and his mouth twitches. "You look beautiful," he says at last. He leans in again. The kiss is slow this time, soft, and Will feels his mind quieting, pulling back from the blood-tinged edges of hallucination. He sees now how Hannibal has designed even this: they are alone in the house, in the lone lit room, as if they are floating away in a kitchen-sized ship. Detached.   
  
" _Staccato_ ," Will whispers.  
  
"Yes," Hannibal says, though whether this is encouragement or confirmation, Will doesn't know.   
  
"I think I got a little overexcited," Will says.  
  
"Understandable."  
  
Will smirks. He lets Hannibal pull away, step toward the sink. It's a beautiful kitchen; the lights are low tonight, gleaming on dark tile and hard wood. The marble island Hannibal uses for large-scale cooking projects has been rolled out into the room, and under the main lamps, it looks like an altar for some ancient virgin sacrifice.   
  
"Would you please strip, Will?" Hannibal says.  
  
Will starts. "I--what?" His heart thumps wildly against his chest, the throttle suddenly thrown open again on his fear and desire. "We're not having dinner?"  
  
He gets no reply. Hannibal's narrowed his eyes, his face more like that of Will's therapist than his lover, and Will wonders for the first time if Hannibal is nervous, too. Well. How could he not be, with Will so manic and disjointed?  
  
He opens his mouth to say--he doesn't know what, to try to calm himself, explain himself, and then Hannibal says, "I trust you, Will." He turns away from whatever he had in the sink. "Perhaps I do not say that enough."  
  
Will doesn't know how to react. "You do. I mean. You don't have to say it, I know it, it's just--"  
  
"These things are worth saying. I trust you to tell me if we are going too far."  
  
"Yes." Will swallows. "I know that. Which is why we talk about these things beforehand. I've been looking forward to it. So much. I want this. I remember my safeword-- _Abigail_." A flush comes over him. It's been days since he's talked to her. He should see her when he surfaces from this. "I know you trust me."  
  
"But do you trust me, Will?" Hannibal says. "To put a halt to this if it goes too far?"  
  
Will breathes in heavily, shakily. "Yes. Of course."  
  
Hannibal's fingers twitch, as if his body is anxious to move on without him. Will can't remember seeing him do that before. ( _No--that's not right--_  He flashes back to a glint of silver, a white sheet of paper on a desk-- and then it's gone.)  
  
"My safeword," Hannibal says, "is  _apophasis_."  
  
"Apophasis?" Will snorts. "I guess you're not likely to yell that accidentally in the heat of the moment."  
  
"Come here, Will," Hannibal says, and the fever rises up again. Will goes to him, lets him take his hands, stroke the mound of his thumb. "I want this to be everything I promised. But you must put yourself entirely in my hands. You must let go of the things you imagine and simply remain present in this moment. And obedient."  
  
"Obedient," Will mutters, as Hannibal steps closer.  
  
"Yes," Hannibal says. "And I think once you are over this line, there will be no returning."  
  
Beneath the fleshy bulb of his ear, Hannibal whispers, "Are you ready to begin?"  
  
Will sees himself as if from the outside, rigid, a fool standing at a cliff's edge.  _Do it_ , he tells himself.  _Trust him. Leap._  
  
"I'm ready," he says.  
  
Hannibal lifts a glass bowl from the sink and cradles it in one arm. The liquid inside is steaming and smells--Will inhales--of jasmine and cedar.   
  
"Then strip," Hannibal says, a note of steel in his voice that was not there a moment ago.  
  
Will strips.  
  
He folds his jacket over the back of a chair. He unbuttons his overshirt and then realizes his shoes are still on; he unlaces them clumsily, setting them aside and tucking his socks into them. Hannibal's gaze falls heavily over him as he removes his shirts and slacks. By the time he pulls down the waistband of his briefs, he's hard and blushing all over. He stands up and puts those aside, too. He faces Hannibal, acutely aware of the cold kitchen air and the fact that Hannibal is still fully and neatly dressed.  
  
"Turn," Hannibal says.  
  
He does. He hears Hannibal step forward, a single click of his shoe against the floor, and then Hannibal's hand, hot and wet, is pressing between his shoulder blades, at that secret place where the skeleton fails to protect the heart. Will gasps.  
  
"One begins with a proper rub," Hannibal murmurs in his ear. His hand leaves Will for a moment and then returns, massaging Will's shoulders. Cedar and jasmine and--lemon. Will lets out a sigh as Hannibal digs in his fingers, coating Will with hot water and oil, drawing out the tension of his shoulders. After a minute, Will hears the sound of Hannibal setting the bowl aside, and then both his hands are on Will's body, tracing the lines of his lateral muscles with a near-painful firmness, smoothing over the planes of his pectoral muscles, gripping and kneading the flesh of his thighs. When his knuckles press into the hollows of Will's hips, Will cries out. The feeling is intense, a spike of sweetness and electricity in his groin. Hannibal does it again, and Will bites his lip, moaning. He feels Hannibal's body pressing up against his back, and he leans into the touch, straining to feel whether Hannibal is as aroused by this as Will is. He wants to feel Hannibal's dick against his ass.   
  
"Turn," Hannibal says again, and Will grunts in frustration, but he does.  
  
The sight of Hannibal kneeling in front of him, dipping long fingers in a steaming bowl, wakens something inside Will. The drips of oil and water are loud in the still room; he can hear his own quick breath, the soft rustle of Hannibal's fine clothes. His body feels loose and untethered. Hannibal reaches up and strokes Will's flanks, the stiff muscles of his thighs, his calves, his ankles. He gently lifts Will's feet one by one and washes them as Will braces himself on the counter. Hannibal looks so calm, so perfectly at peace, and yet Will can sense--can almost taste--the heat of his arousal on the air, mingled with the scents of slow-cooked meat and aerating wine.   
  
With the anointing apparently completed, Hannibal lifts the bowl into the sink, rinses his hands, and turns back to Will. He removes his apron slowly (and what  _is_  that on the cloth--wine? blood?), folding it and setting it aside. He takes a step toward Will. Will shudders. He feels vulnerable, wild, like a startled deer. Hannibal reaches a hand up to Will's face, touches an index finger to Will's lips. Will can't help himself. He opens his mouth, dips his head to take Hannibal's finger between his lips. He sucks, caresses, laps. Hannibal makes no sound, but his eyes are dark and glimmering.  
  
"Open that drawer, Will," he says, nodding toward the marble cooking island.   
  
It looks like a spice drawer, but what it contains makes Will flush scarlet.  
  
"Put them on," Hannibal says.  
  
Will holds up one of the two leather cuffs. They're beautifully made, like everything Hannibal owns, double-stitched through three layers of russet leather and finished with shining brass buckles and rings. He swallows. He slips them over his wrists and holds out his arms to Hannibal.  
  
"You are  _quite_  obedient," Hannibal murmurs as he begins to buckle the cuffs around Will's wrists, and Will says, "Oh," as heat surges in his groin. He feels like a dog being rewarded by its master for good behaviour. He didn't think he liked behaving. The surprise shames him and excites him.  
  
When Hannibal finishes securing the cuffs, he takes Will's forearms and lifts the cuffs toward him, inspecting, forcing Will to step closer. Will's stomach tightens with fear. His nudity, his vulnerability, in front of a man he knows to be so physically and mentally powerful--it reduces Will to his innermost animal instincts. He wants to bite his way free, wants to run and hide, where no predator can find him.  
  
"You're shaking," Hannibal says. He sounds pleased. "Are you frightened, Will?"  
  
"Yes," Will says, as Hannibal's fingers probe between the cuffs and the soft skin of Will's wrists.  
  
Hannibal does not respond. He reaches into the drawer instead, removing two leather straps. "Lie down," he says.   
  
Will looks around. "Lie down?"  
  
"Here." He gestures to the marble island.  
  
The memory of their night on the porch comes rushing back, and Will suddenly realizes what it was he neglected, what Hannibal might be asking of Will. What Hannibal meant when he said  _I fear you will find it strange..._  
  
"Don't you cook on this table?" Will says.  
  
Hannibal smiles. It's a wide, sanguine smile, a promise of secrets unveiled and darknesses explored. "I do," he says. "And I will be sure to clean it afterward."  
  
He steps forward and puts a hand to Will's throat. "Besides," he says, "I like my kitchen to have a few secrets."  
  
Will's legs no longer seem able to support him.   
  
"Lie down," Hannibal says again, roughly, this time with the added pressure of his grip around Will's neck, thumb tucked so tight under Will's chin that he begins to see sparks, and he lets himself fall, and fall, and then the marble is cool at his back, and Hannibal is looping the leather straps through the gleaming brass rings of the cuffs.   
  
The ceiling is very white.   
  
"How do you feel?" Hannibal says. His hands are on Will's belly, as if holding in Will's panic.  
  
Will wants to say,  _Like some fucking virgin princess being gutted under a full moon. Like an oracular corpse._  But the words won't leave his lips. His body is wet and heavy, ripe with blood and desire. His hands lie near his shoulders, elbows near his waist. He pulls at the restraints.  
  
"Held," he says.  
  
Hannibal waits.   
  
He loves to listen, Will remembers, and he forces himself to speak. His own voice seems too loud, embarrassingly honest. His skull is suddenly pounding, his face hot. "I--like an animal. A trapped animal. I can almost hear the whisper of branches whipping past, the feet of the predator like a drum behind me..." He's dizzy, abruptly grateful not to be standing. He tries to focus. Hannibal's hand rises up above him, covers his eyes. Panic spikes in Will's chest, and he cries out, kicks, and then makes himself still. His heart beats erratically. So  _loud_.  
  
He senses Hannibal's closeness this time before he hears him, bent to Will's ear: "What's in the forest?"  
  
Will sucks in a breath. The stone beneath him is warm and slick now from his body, from the oil, and the smell of cedar rises around him. Cedar and jasmine and  _mud_ , now he smells it, the last piece of the design, that odd jangling scent, the telltale smell, like blood in water. "Hannibal, I'm frightened."  
  
But Hannibal does not remove his hand. If anything, his grip tightens. Will can't see anything. He hears his breath come raggedly from his throat. "What's in the forest with you, Will?"  
  
"I can't see," Will says, and yet at the same time he  _can_ , in his mind's eye, with perfect clarity. He's drifting away into that other place he goes, the nightmare place. Dimly he apprehends that something is wrong, that he is not detaching, not rising, but falling, sinking, being swallowed whole by the darkness.   
  
"Talk to me, Will," Hannibal says, and there's an urgency in his voice that washes Will with relief. His therapist is here. He is not alone in the forest.  
  
He concentrates. "It's another animal," he says, and then feels his stomach twist, ashamed of how easy it is to accept inhumanity, to lower himself to a bestial state. "I can hear him sniffing. He smells my blood. He's--tracking me."   
  
Will feels Hannibal's other hand settle on his chest, warm and solid. "What does he look like, Will?"   
  
"He looks--" Will can't see, he's behind a tree, and his tracker keeps ducking out of sight. "He's--" His stomach is tightening. His heart races. If he could just summon the courage to move--  
  
Hannibal's hand lowers onto his cock, then, and Will's whole body seizes, lifting off the marble, and the forest drops away. The restraints pull him back down, force him to the table. Hannibal has lifted his other hand from Will's eyes.  
  
"God, that was fucking intense," Will says, panting. The whole room seems clouded with white light, too bright and clinical after the dense blackness of the forest.   
  
Hannibal lifts Will's hair back from his face, runs his fingers over Will's mouth again, even as he begins to stroke Will's cock. Will moans, desperate, and takes Hannibal's fingers into his mouth, licking between them, taking him in as far as he can, wanting more, wanting to be penetrated. He hardly notices the animal noises he is making, mouth full and cock leaking.  
  
"You're doing very well, Will," Hannibal says, sounding distant, and pulls away. Will whimpers, wanting him back.   
  
"Am I?" Will says.   
  
"Yes," Hannibal says, returning to the sink and rinsing again. "Your trust is a heady thing. I fear it may go to my head." Something about the way he says that makes Will shiver, and he wishes he could see Hannibal's face, reassure himself that this is the man he knows, the man who cares for him. He sounds strange.  
  
But Hannibal doesn't turn around. He's opening drawers now, arranging things on the counter that clink like glass or metal against the stone. Will waits, his head spinning, body vibrating, overwhelmed with sensation. The lamp overhead seems to shift and blur; he is out in the woods again, under a full moon, running, terrified, running for his life...  
  
"You said once that you wanted to be punished by someone who could be a killer." Hannibal's voice is low, gutteral, his accent coming more thickly than usual.   
  
"Yes." Will makes himself breathe, tries to force down the rush of anxiety that bubbles up. This is the center of his fear, the center of his desire, the hardest and darkest thing he has offered up to Hannibal. He has to hold himself still. He wants this so badly. He is so ashamed.   
  
Hannibal walks over to him then, stands at his side, like a doctor at an operating table. "Any particular killer, Will?"  
  
"Oh God," Will says. "Oh God."  
  
Hannibal leans over, his body covering Will's chest and face, mouth at Will's ear again. He is pressed into Hannibal's shoulder, the soft cloth of Hannibal's shirt smooth against his lips. He can't move, can barely breathe.  
  
"Tell me, Will," Hannibal whispers. "Tell me what you want." He, too, is breathing hard, is excited by this.   
  
"Yes," Will says, feeling small and weak.  
  
There's a cold sting in Will's side, suddenly, a tiny prick, and Will's terror overwhelms him. The knife. Hannibal is holding the knife at his side, point just under the ribcage. He is trapped, utterly, horribly, lethally trapped. A whine escapes him.  
  
" _Tell me_ ," Hannibal hisses, and digs the point of the knife in just a fraction, and Will nearly screams.   
  
"The Ripper," Will says, the secret torn out of him, "the Ripper, the Ripper." Three times, Will thinks hysterically, three times, like a fairy tale, to summon him.  
  
When Hannibal leans back, his eyes dark and cold, Will feels in the marrow of his bones that the spell has worked. He hears a wolf howl, and he does not know-- _he does not know_ \--whether or not it is real.  
  
Hannibal pauses. The knife gleams, its bone-shaped handle fitted perfectly to Hannibal's hand. Then he takes a deep breath and says, with wonder in his voice, "I believe, Will, that I have never wanted anything as much as I want you." He leans down and for a moment--just a moment--Will believes he will tear out Will's throat with his teeth. But he doesn't. His mouth presses against Will's own, soft, warm, such a relief, and Will feels a tear roll down his cheek as he kisses Hannibal, shaking with horror and lust.

When Hannibal straightens, the darkness that hung over his face like a veil is gone. He holds the boning knife carelessly, normally, as if he were about to slice a roast and plate it. His other hand caresses Will’s forehead, sweeping sweat-soaked hair back from his eyes.

Will blinks. “Water...?” he says, not quite sure if it’s all right to ask.

But Hannibal nods, and turns, setting the knife aside and running the tap. Something about that calms Will – _tap_ water, even Hannibal Lecter drinks tap water sometimes. The world is comprehensible again, real, solid.

Then Hannibal’s arm is under Will’s shoulders, lifting him, and Will feels the glass at his lips. He drinks, awkwardly at first, straining, and then he allows himself to settle into Hannibal’s embrace. He downs the glass.

“Thank you,” he whispers, wishing he could wipe his lips. Hannibal seems to catch the flicker of his eyes, and after setting down the glass, he runs his fingers over Will’s mouth. He tastes faintly of butter.

They watch each other for a moment, and Will realizes he’s spent two whole seconds just feeling, being in his body, thinking of nothing at all.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he says again, this time with a huge weight of feeling behind it, and the ghost of a smile pulls at Hannibal’s mouth.

“This has been very intense for you,” Hannibal says, his hand buried in Will’s hair again.

Will nods. He loves Hannibal’s hands, how large and dextrous and strong they are.

“And even though we have previously negotiated what is about to happen,” Hannibal goes on, “I would like to obtain confirmation from you one last time.”

The tone of his voice snags Will’s brain like a hook catching fish.

“Confirmation,” he says, his chest tightening. He pulls at the restraints again, slower than before, but harder. The stitches are the weakest point on the cuffs, he’s pretty sure.

Hannibal dips his head, his eyes now shadowed by his brow. “Are you ready?”

Will knows that his fear wars with and drives his arousal. It’s why he began doing this sort of thing way back when, why he brought it up with Hannibal, why he’s been so desperate to _do_ this. But the way Hannibal plays with him, gets _inside_ him... it’s on the edge of too much.

“Will.” Hannibal puts a hand to the other side of Will’s face, makes him hold eye contact. He moves closer, and now Will can see his eyes again, that unusual shade of brown so bright it’s almost red.

“What are you going to do to me?” Will says. He sounds so small, he thinks.

“Nothing you don’t agree to.”

Will feels the tension in his chest break, and suddenly he needs to blink to clear his vision. _Nothing you don’t agree to_. They’re still playing. It’s just play.

He has a choice about this.

“Okay,” Will says.

“We can stop,” Hannibal says, and Will’s body reacts so violently to that suggestion that he pulls involuntarily at the cuffs.

“No,” Will says, “no, I want this, I want _you_ , I just—it’s so hard to think—”

Hannibal shushes him, presses him back onto the marble with a palm against his chest, and kisses him again. He lets himself open under Hannibal, lets Hannibal’s tongue lick into his mouth, lets his legs fall open. He feels Hannibal’s hand on his cock again, firm and warm. Will makes a noise of pleasure.

“So,” Hannibal says, pulling his mouth away at last. “Here’s what I’m going to do to you. Are you ready, Will?”

Will nods.

“First,” Hannibal begins, a hand still stroking Will’s cock, “I’m going to gag you.”

“Ah,” Will says. “Fuck. Yes, I remember—yes, okay. _Fuck_.” Hannibal is really _very_ good with his hands.

“Then I am going to bind you so that you cannot escape.” There’s a hint of amusement in Hannibal’s face as he says this, and Will chuckles, and then gasps as Hannibal’s fingers find the sensitive spot under the head of his dick.

“And then—I believe you requested that I cut you?”

Will remembers. “Yes.”

“And you still want me to do this?”

“Yes. God. _Ah_.” Will’s eyes are closed now.

“Very well. I will do as you request. After that, I will stretch you.”

Will opens his eyes. “Stretch me?”

Hannibal says nothing, but his hand leaves Will’s dick, and his fingers press gently down, and down, and then Hannibal slides one hard finger inside Will, and Will whimpers.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Please. God, please, Hannibal—”

“ _Then_ I will ensure that you are properly prepared. And I will grant you the privilege of speech for one purpose only: so that you may beg me to fuck you.” Another finger enters him. Will cries out. “You do still want me to fuck you, don’t you, Will?”

“Please, Hannibal, yes, I want you—”

“Not yet, Will.” His fingers draw out. He steps away to the sink, and Will hears the water running. It seems to have gotten darker; is that possible? Or, no, Will’s brain is just buzzing with need, his whole body focused on having Hannibal inside him, taking him, fucking him.

Hannibal returns. “So. Do you consent to all of these things, Will?”

Will swallows. He tries to think, tries to be as present and responsible as Hannibal is, but it’s like he’s underwater. He summons every ounce of focus he has left, and he fixes his eyes on Hannibal’s face. “I consent.”

Hannibal smiles. “Good.” And then his hand comes up, and Will opens his mouth to ask what he’s doing, and then a cold, wet plum fills his mouth with sweetness.

“Plums usually accompany dessert,” Hannibal says as Will bites down, feeling the juice spill over his tongue, “but I have always been partial to a sweet _amuse-bouche_.”

Will wants to make a quip about how very fucking amused his mouth is, but he can’t. He grunts, and feels bestial, and the shame of it floods him with lust. A distant part of his brain appreciates the cleverness of using a plum to gag him with: he need only bite down to release it. And it is, he supposes, a sort of appetizer.

A provoker of hunger.

“Now,” he hears Hannibal say, “the rest of the truss.”

Truss is a thing you do to fowl, Will thinks, before you _roast_ them, and he feels Hannibal lifting his legs. He watches Hannibal pull his right knee up to meet his right elbow; he loops another leather strap around the two joints; he tightens the strap. Will grunts again, pulls down with his right leg, and is shocked to find he’s fastened in place: the cuffs on his wrists prevent him from moving his arms or elbows down, and his knees don’t go any further up. He can’t even really twist side to side. Hannibal’s done with his left leg by the time he’s done pulling at his right side. He looks down. He is indeed trussed up—just like a fucking turkey.

Hannibal is standing between his legs, where Will’s ass and balls and cock are very much exposed and vulnerable.

He’s holding the knife.

“I keep my promises, Will,” Hannibal whispers, and he leans forward, placing his other hand at Will’s throat.

Will screams, or thinks he screams, but the sound is dulled by the gag, and he feels a shock of terror ripple through him as Hannibal lifts the knife to Will’s chest. It looks long and sharp, terribly sharp, and suddenly the forest flashes in Will’s vision again, the smell of wet earth and pine rising around him. Hannibal’s grip tightens on his throat, and Will resurfaces, his vision clearing just as the point of the knife begins to part Will’s flesh.

Blood wells. Will looks down, and though Hannibal’s grip on his throat partially obscures his view, he sees—and feels—that Hannibal is drawing a straight line down his sternum, as if he were about to break the breastbone, perform an autopsy. Other things he knows about Hannibal begin flickering through his mind—that he was a surgeon—the night Hannibal stuck his hand in a man’s chest and manually pumped his heart—the scalpel he keeps on his desk—

Then the pain blooms, and Will’s flesh is stinging, and he nearly does bite through the plum. He looks up.

Hannibal is beautiful, his hair crowned in white light, his face dark. His lips are parted, as if he were about to devour Will.

 _He’s aroused by this_ , Will thinks, and that touches him, somehow, that Hannibal is doing this because Will asked, because Will _asked him to do it_ , even though—god, even though it must be so hard, this is a man who quit his surgical practice because he lost a patient, and Will is flooded with gratitude so thick and sweet that it erases the pain.

Hannibal pauses, watching Will’s face. The knife hovers over Will’s gut. He tilts his head, seemingly questioning.

Will nods, feeling the pressure of Hannibal’s hand at his throat.

Hannibal growls, and Will feels his cock grow impossibly hard, and then with one smooth flick of the wrist, he executes a long slice across Will’s belly so swift and fine that droplets of blood spray across Will’s arm and face, and Will only knows his body has shot upward because of the sudden tight pull of the restraints, forcing him back down. He looks down, panicked, half-expecting to see that Hannibal has gutted him, but there’s barely a scratch – just a line of gleaming red beads across his abdomen, like a broken necklace.

Will moans, relieved and trembling, and his head lolls to the side, only to have Hannibal jerk it back upright. He stares Hannibal in the face, not comprehending, but then he feels the cold, wet press of metal at his cheek. He feels his eyes widen.

 _No_ , he wants to say, but he can’t, he can’t. The plum is giving and soft under his teeth, rich on his tongue. He doesn’t dare even shake his head.

Hannibal’s eyes look glazed over with desire. He doesn’t move the hand from Will’s throat, so Will can’t see, but he feels the point of the knife draw down oh so slowly over his collarbone, back up the side of his neck, and come to rest on Will’s lips.

The noise that escapes Will is not human.

“Don’t move,” Hannibal says. He turns the knife, presses the flat to Will’s skin, and then he punctures the plum, slicing it, carving it away, a hair’s breath from Will’s lips. The implication, the physical analogy, fills Will with horror. He imagines the analagous act, pictures Hannibal carving into him, and just as he feels himself sinking into darkness, Hannibal lifts the slice of plum away on the tip of the knife and eats it. He watches Will’s face as he chews.

Will moans and thrusts his hips upward, unable to contain himself.

Hannibal finishes eating. He goes to the counter, puts the knife down. When he returns, he holds something up for Will to see: a parsnip, skinned and washed, its pointed tip chopped away and rounded. It is dripping with oil, so much oil that rivulets of it run down Hannibal’s hand.

Then he lowers his hand, and Will understands what is about to happen just a few seconds before Hannibal slides the parsnip inside him.

He feels violated, humiliated, so turned on he can barely breathe. _I am an animal_ , he thinks, _I’m just meat to him, not good enough to fuck, only good for—_ he nearly chokes as he has the thought— _only good for stuffing_. He feels his ass clench as Hannibal slides the parsnip further into him, then out, then in, the motion small but swift. _He’s fucking me with it_ , Will thinks, and he imagines his face must be flushed as dark as the decanter of wine, he’s so embarrassed and aroused. He’s abruptly grateful for the gag and the restraints. Whatever he said or did right now could only humiliate him further, he’s sure.

Then Hannibal leans over and takes a bite of the plum while still fucking in and out of him with the parsnip, and Will feels precome leak all over his stomach, and then he isn’t so sure anything could be more humiliating than this, after all.

“Almost there,” Hannibal whispers, and he pushes the parsnip into Will far enough that he feels himself having to stretch to take it all. Hannibal turns away for a second; when he turns around, he’s holding the decanter of wine.

“A good cooking wine should also be drinkable,” Hannibal says, as if he’s making polite conversation over a meal; and then he pours the decanter over Will.

Will sputters, shakes like a wet dog, then grunts in pain as he feels the wine wash over the cuts Hannibal has made in his skin. Wine is running down his collarbones, his cock, over the marble, onto the floor. It’s a mess, a goddamn mess in Hannibal’s kitchen, it’s like watching a pagan priest pour out an offering and it’s like being a piece of meat about to be burnt in the fire, and then Hannibal bends down and takes Will’s cock into his mouth, and Will finally bites all the way through the plum.

“Hannibal, oh _god_ ,” Will gasps, pulling at the leather ties. He feels so dirty, so open and _used_ , his ass full and his cock being lapped and sucked at. He watches Hannibal’s head bob up and down on his dick, feeling the soft heat of his mouth, the faint brush of his teeth. He watches a spill of wine fan out over Hannibal’s collar, and he wants to say something, absurdly, wants to tell Hannibal not to ruin his shirt, and he hears his own voice swearing and gasping, and then he’s begging, begging, _please_ , Hannibal, _please, fuck me, I need you to fuck me, oh god, please put your cock inside me, please, please, please..._

The heat on his cock is gone. Hannibal is breathing hard, his lips wine-dark, his eyes shining. He holds Will’s gaze as he reaches down to unfasten his trousers. “You beg so beautifully,” he says.

Then he reaches down and pulls the parsnip out of Will, and there’s only a moment of cold before Will feels, finally, _finally_ , the press of Hannibal’s dick in his ass.

“ _Yes_ ,” Will cries out, no longer caring how loud he is, how embarrassing— “Yes, oh _god,_ please, _fuck me_ —”

“ _Avec plaisir, mon cher_ ,” Hannibal says, and then he grips Will by the thighs, hooks Will’s feet over his shoulders, and drives into him.

He’s fucking hard, so hard it’s just a little painful, and Will almost wants to tell him to slow down, but he’s greedy, he wants to be fucked more than he wants Hannibal to go slow—and then the pain recedes, and all he can feel is the girth of Hannibal’s cock, the power of his thrusts, each its own beat, like a drum, _one two three_ —and he’s moaning continuously now, babbling half-sentences and Hannibal’s name and _yes_ and _there, right there, fuck yes_. Hannibal murmurs, “Ask me for permission,” which takes Will a second to parse, addled as his brain is with the smell of wine and blood and the feel of being _taken_ , being fucked right there in the middle of the kitchen, and then he understands, and he says, helplessly, “Oh _god_.”

“Ask me,” Hannibal says again, this time accompanying his words with a deep, vicious thrust that strains Will’s hamstrings.

“Hannibal,” Will says, shaking, trying to breathe, trying to form words while pleasure is building and building inside him, “Hannibal, please may I—” he cuts himself off with a groan, closes his eyes, unable to say it.

A stinging slap startles his eyes open and makes his cock jump. “Will,” Hannibal says. Will stares at him. He’s so tall, looming over Will in his wine-stained shirt, thrusting into him, and Will realizes that Hannibal didn’t even bother to take off his _shirt_ to fuck him, and somehow that’s what sends him over the edge into _needing_ to come.

“Please, may I come,” he says, “please, Hannibal, may I?”

“Not yet,” Hannibal says, but he wraps one of his hands around Will’s dick, and Will shudders.

“Please,” Will says, squeezing his eyes shut. His back is beginning to curl, his whole body sliding on the marble with every forceful thrust. Hannibal feels so _big_ inside him, so insistent and powerful.

“Not yet, Will,” Hannibal says, and Will can feel the tension building in Hannibal’s body, now, some empathic sense allowing him to feel just how close Hannibal is, too, how his thighs are tightening and his thrusts are growing more erratic.

Will needs, god, he _needs_ so badly, he feels everything swelling and building, and he doesn’t think he can hang on much longer. He forces himself to open his eyes, and he makes eye contact with Hannibal as he says, “Please, Hannibal, I _need_ to come, _please_ ,” and Hannibal tightens his grip on Will.

“Then you may,” he says in a rough voice, and Will gives in to the feeling, lets himself be washed away by the smell of sex and the taste of the plum and the feeling of Hannibal, _Hannibal_ , and he cries out his lover’s name as he comes, and comes, and loses himself.

He feels Hannibal release his cock and begin to thrust into him harder, faster. He feels the sting of wine in his wounds and the bite of the leather straps under his knees, and he knows that it will soon become painful, but all he can think right now is _yes, yes, use me, use me_.

When Hannibal spends himself inside Will, he whispers something in a language Will doesn’t know. Or perhaps, Will thinks, in no human language at all.

Will drifts. Hannibal leaves him; lights dim; other lights, somewhere, go on. He feels the bonds around his elbows, knees, and wrists fall away. He drinks water again; Hannibal helps him to stand, walks him to the bathroom. He turns on the shower, but Will can’t stand up, and so Hannibal gently lowers him to sit under the spray. He washes Will’s chest and belly, scrubs Will’s back. He shampoos Will’s hair, rubbing his scalp with deep, firm motions of his fingers. Will feels sore and tired.

And then the water shuts off, and Hannibal wraps Will in a towel and says something about setting the table, and Will sees that his clothes are sitting next to him.

And he is suddenly very, very hungry.

When he has dressed in his slacks, underwear, and undershirt, Will pads out into the dining room to find that the room is bright, the candles are lit, and there’s even music playing somewhere.

“Water music,” he says quietly, the name coming to him. Hannibal smiles as he finishes plating Will’s dinner.

Will sits.

The plate is beautiful: beef, slow-cooked, oozing a deep red liquid too thick to be blood. A whole clove of garlic topping a pile of root vegetables—including, yes, parsnips. Will feels a rueful grin spreading across his face.

“Don’t tell me,” Will says. “Plum ice cream for dessert?”

“A traditional plum pudding, in fact,” Hannibal says, his eyes gleaming with amusement and satiety, “but you have the idea.”

Hannibal pours the remainder of the decanter into their glasses. He raises his glass; Will returns the toast. They drink.

Will stares at him. Then he begins to chuckle. Then he laughs, _really_ laughs, the first laugh he’s had in he can’t remember how long. Since he met Hannibal, maybe.

“Thank you,” he says. He lifts his knife and fork.

“My pleasure,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will lifts a cut of the meat to his lips. He eats.

“Mmm. What is that?”

“Pomegranate,” Hannibal replies. “There are other spices as well, of course. An old family recipe.”

Will thinks of Hannibal’s other dinners, other designs; he thinks of paths through the forest, of the dark places in the world. Hannibal’s face as he said, _I keep my promises_.

Will savors the taste of the pomegranate on his tongue. “Are you planning to keep me, Doctor Lecter?”

He meant it to be flippant, but Hannibal puts down his fork and looks Will in the eye.

“If you don’t mind,” he says.

“No,” Will says, his face heating. “I don’t.”

Hannibal nods. “Good.” He lifts his fork again. “Dessert is waiting,” he says, gesturing to Will’s plate. “As you Americans say: eat up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers: thank you so much for being patient with this, and for continuing to encourage me to finish! Wrist issues have kept me from it for a while, but I was determined to do it. I very much hope you like it. This is the end of this series, though I may, in time, begin another.
> 
> A few quick notes about safety and food: although doctors in the 18th century really did sometimes pour wine or other alcohol on wounds to clean them, medical science has far better alternatives now. Pouring wine on your cuts sometimes kills the tissue. It's the one genuinely unsafe thing I included, mostly because I couldn't resist (and I didn't think Hannibal could either). 
> 
> The recipe for the pomegranate beef, given to me by a dear friend, is here: http://glutenfreegoddess.blogspot.ca/2008/01/beef-in-pomegranate-sauce.html
> 
> I reserve the right to add notes when I'm less sleepy, but mostly: thank you thank you for reading!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Consumed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335372) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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